Echoes Of War

CHAPTER III | THE MATRIARCH'S WORRY

A low growl brews in Lunis' throat-low, warning-but she swallows it down before it breaches the air. Still, the feeling lingers, clinging to her like burrs tangled in her fur: prickling, persistent, impossible to shake.

The pack has returned to the den. For most, it's a welcome reprieve-time to sprawl beneath silvered skies, to nuzzle familiar pelts, to bask in the lull of moonlight and laughter.

But not for her.

Where they see comfort, she sees duty. Where they see rest, she sees reprimand. The shadows cast by the clearing's bushy walls do little to soften the sharp edges of what awaits her inside-namely, the storm-eyed Teta, whose patience, she knows, has long since run dry.

Her paws already itch for motion-for the hunt, the wind biting at her ears, the wildfire thrum of her heart in full pursuit. She craves the rush, the chase, the blur of earth beneath her claws-not the stillness of the den, the sour tang of poultices, or the groans of restless patients shedding fur by the season.

But she says nothing.

Words won't rewrite what's already been done. Complaining changes nothing, and she knows better than to bark at shadows. She's made her choices-every step, every slip-and she will bear their weight in silence, as she always has.

The arch of a fallen oak curves into view, its weathered limbs framing the clearing where the heart of the pack lies hidden. As it stretches gracefully above her head, Lunis feels her chest tighten, her breath catching like a thorn in her throat.

Just moments ago, the wolves had moved as one-fluid and disciplined. Now, the rhythm breaks. Shapes slip into the moonlit glade in pairs and trios, scattering like wind-tossed leaves. Some peel away to murmur in huddles, others vanish between the trees, already chasing after their own duties or dreams.

And there, at the far edge of the clearing, where the earth dips into darkness, a lone figure waits.

Silver and black, dusted with the wisdom of age, he sits before the den's yawning mouth-silent, watchful. The grey that streaks his muzzle does nothing to soften the quiet authority in his gaze.

Silver, the Teta.

His striking daffodil eyes sharpen with alertness as he rises, fluid and deliberate, to greet the Alphas. Navira and Rohan dip their heads in quiet reverence, exchanging a few low murmurs that don't carry across the clearing.

Lunis lingers at the threshold, half-shadowed beneath the oak arch, watching but not daring to move closer.

She doesn't need to hear the words.

The slight flick of Rohan's tail, the tightening of Silver's jaw, the faint ripple of displeasure along his muzzle-it's all the confirmation she needs.

They're talking about her.

And when Silver's eyes finally meet hers across the stretch of trampled grass, the verdict is already etched into his gaze.

Disappointment. Cold and settled like frost.

Lunis swallows hard, the knot lodged in her throat tightening until she can scarcely breathe. If the earth had any kindness left, it would open beneath her paws and pull her under-deep into the roots and stone, far from the weight of his gaze.

But the ground holds firm. Unforgiving. Just like him.

Ears pinned and tail brushing low against her hocks, she steps forward, each movement deliberate, her muscles taut beneath her pelt. The clearing feels colder now, the wind sharper as if even the forest braces for Silver's judgment. She is ready-at least, as ready as she'll ever be-to weather the bite of his disapproval, the clipped words and coiled restraint that always hurt worse than anger.